Break
by smash interrupted
Summary: Keegan always knew that bringing Logan in would be the easy part. Because three years after going missing at the hands of Rorke, Elias Walker's youngest son is almost unrecognizable. And making him remember who he's supposed to be when all he wants to do is kill them all? Well that... that was going to be the hard part. - Platonic. Dark themes.


**Break**  
Part 1/15

* * *

In the vast, dead emptiness of No Man's Land, the sound of a door creaking open was about as loud as a window shattering – the soft noise driving home the same amount of alarm as glass shards skittering across the floor.

Someone was in the house.

A second passed, than another. Logan controlled his breathing, keeping still even as his body responded to the threat with a sharp spike of adrenaline. Whoever had just walked through the door knew he was here. In an area as big as this, with nobody else for miles around, there was no other explanation. They were coming for him.

And the fact that Logan hadn't _seen_ them coming?

Rorke might have shaped him into a cold, callous shell of what he once was, but that didn't stop his heart from thumping off-rhythm. Didn't stop his mouth from going dry as he reached for his P226, thumb gently ticking off the safety. The _click_ was almost explosive in the tepid silence surrounding him, but Logan knew it was a necessity. With his Honey Badger propped up against the wall several feet away and his knife lacking any kind of firepower, it was all he had in the moment.

Outside, the creaking stopped.

If they'd been tracking him, then they'd been watching the house. Mapping its exits and escape routes, analysing its best point of entry. Deciding where a rogue sniper might have laid his nest. Logan would have done the same, though he wouldn't have bothered with stealth. The Federation had a creed about survivors.

 _ **Leave none.**_

Logan aimed at the door on his right as he slowly sat up, pulling his feet under him with a grimace. He'd chosen a bedroom near the middle of the building to sleep in, with two entrances and a window so small it wasn't worth worrying about. Not daring to climb onto the moth-eaten mattress, he'd instead bunked down on one side of the frame, using it as a shield against the door on his left. He did the same now as he stalked the length of the bed, crouching down behind the wood, his eyes glinting in the darkness like a wild animal's.

Any second, he expected his unwanted house guest to launch their assault. The quiet around his was almost suffocating – begging to be broken. And it was eventually – a sudden, sharp _hiss_ reverberating around the house. Logan almost froze, confusion thundering in his head – his muscle memory the only thing driving him forwards for a few beats.

That was, unmistakeably, a _gas canister_ going off.

They wanted him alive.

Swearing under his breath, Logan grabbed the scarf hanging loosely around his neck and tugged it over the lower half of his face. Not having thought that he'd be finding himself in this situation when he went to sleep, he hadn't secured it to act as a mask. To keep it up he had to hold it – leaving him with only one hand.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ –

Logan gave up on subtly – slamming upright and bolting for the Badger. He couldn't use it just yet, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be able to later on. He held his breath long enough to drag its strap over his shoulder, then spun towards the nearest exit.

He didn't see the vapour crawling in from under the door – it was too dark, the moon's brightness only a faint glimmer behind drawn curtains – but he felt the all-too-familiar sting of tear gas as he rocked back to kick open his escape. It _burned_ – his eyes watering something fierce, his eyelids fighting to squeeze shut. Logan fought it, barely hesitating.

The door crashed open a moment later, so violently that it rebounded off the wall – splintering in a series of _cracks_ Logan didn't register. He was too busy pushing out, pistol raised, almost blinded as he pounded down the hallway, heading for the front yard. He'd taken a gamble. Logic said that they would have set the tear gas off on one side of the house to drive him out the other. They wouldn't be waiting for him here. He'd have a minute, at most.

One beat later, as a silhouette materialised in his peripherals – fuzzy, but no less solid as it launched out of a side room and bulldozed into his side, Logan realised he'd been wrong.

 _So wrong_.

Quick on the draw, he was turning when his attacker hit him – instinct bringing his hand around and up. His finger squeezed the trigger mercilessly, but it was already too late – the bullet imbedding itself in the plaster overhead. The man had anticipated it, knocking his arm sideways with his own before slamming into Logan's exposed torso with his full weight and momentum behind him.

They crashed to the floor in a painful, writhing heap. Logan hit first, the wind getting knocked out of him as his back bounced off the ground. His chest further compressed as his attacker landed on top of him, a volatile _snap_ from within his body telling him something had broken. Adrenaline tempered the hurt, but it still seared – savage and brutal, dragging a wheezing grunt from his lips. He tasted blood – metallic and salty, and spat into the face that hovered above him.

Tactic of the underdog. If the man hadn't been kitted up in a full gas mask, it might have worked. As it was, it did little to turn their fight in his favour – the fact that he was the bottom and already overwhelmed, sealing his fate.

In a last ditch effort, Logan kicked out with his legs. It was a bad angle for it, but his strength seemed to win out – almost dislodging the bastard. In the precious few seconds that bought him, Logan very nearly broke free – the pistol that had slid from his grip within reach of his fingertips.

The abrupt, biting cold of a barrel being tucked under his chin was quick to quell that struggle.

Logan froze, head tilting slightly to try and see the weapon – the blurriness in his vision not giving him the satisfaction. A warning nudge against his jaw brought his gaze back to the emotionless mask, the man behind it an unknown until a slow, measured voiced that Logan knew _far_ too fucking well rumbled out from behind it.

'You think you can run from me, kid?' Keegan said, utterly calm and self-assured in the face of Logan's animalistic snarl. Like this had been a game he'd always known he'd win. 'I've had you since San Diego.'

Anger, hate, disgust. Logan felt the emotions twist at him, tearing at his skin, his mind. Begging him to drive his teeth into Keegan's throat and rip out everything that kept the older sniper breathing.

Only a Ghost could take down a Ghost. Logan didn't even try to think where the fuck Keegan could have found him in San Diego, because the ability to think clearly had gone out the window the second he'd recognised him.

'… I'm going to fucking kill you,' Logan rasped, his words hoarse but no less determined. He could hardly make out the shape above him, but that didn't matter. 'Slit your throat and bleed you dry like the fucking pig you are, and then leave you for the rest of them to find...'

Keegan laughed low in his throat, darkly amused. 'You can try, kid. But you'll have to get away from me first, and I'm not interested in letting you go.'

'Fuck you.'

'Hm.'

A shift in weight, but the gun didn't move as Keegan rummaged in one of his pockets, pulling out something Logan couldn't see. He tried to, arching up from the ground slightly, trying to see what the sniper was planning. Another sharp jab drove him back down. Logan's mind whirred, trying to think of a way out. Anything. _Use anything_.

Rorke's instructions. Logan had heard it many times, in a lot of contexts. Some of the lessons had been painful, but lasting.

'Keegan…' It was a softer tone – a tone Logan might have used before he'd become more than Logan. A trace of the past that the older sniper was stuck living in. 'I didn't mean… You know what he did to me, right? I'm sorry… please don't… Whatever you're doing… We can talk about this…'

Silence. A pause. Logan stared up at him with unseeing eyes, tears and snot dribbling down his face. It was purely a response to the irritants in the air, but that didn't mean it wouldn't have an impact. And it did – only problem was, Keegan was far too smart for that.

Always had been. He was Rorke's most coveted body bag, for that reason.

'… I know you're in there, Logan,' Keegan finally said, unruffled on the surface. Below it, the almost bipolar change in the younger man below him was a warning. Manipulative, unnerving. 'But this isn't you.'

"No, Keegan-"

Without warning, the cruel, unpleasant sting of a needle sinking into his neck made Logan's eyes widen – the whites showing in surprise. The sniper had moved fast, and with his thumb pressing the plunger, he leaned down, making sure Logan understood him.

'Don't worry, kid,' Keegan said, voice hard with steely resolve. 'I'm going to get you out of there. Even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming.'

"You-" Logan shuddered as the cold liquid shot into bloodstream. It was a sedative – black spots overtaking his sight, lead weighing down his limbs. Whatever he'd been intending to say died on the tip of his tongue as his body went ragdoll limp.

Keegan withdrew the syringe. 'Sleep tight.'

* * *

 **A/N:** This has been collecting dust in my drafts for a while, and I know that if I don't post it, it's even less likely that I'll finish it. So here it is. Poor Logan is going to need a hug.


End file.
